“—waste of such a fine location,” one was harrumphing. “James has been too accommodating, I say.”
The other nodded. “Aye, but why should the king care what is on such cursed lands when he is profiting twice its worth in fees?”
Now Tavish’s attention was caught. “Profiting twice from Douglas, you mean?”
The two old men exchanged guarded glances, but before either could answer, Tavish saw in his peripheral vision the maid he’d sent to find Glenna inching through the crowd.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Tavish said, then turned to meet the maid halfway. “Did you find her?” he asked straight away.
“Aye, laird,” the woman squeaked. “She was in the old man’s chamber, as you thought.” Something inside Tavish relaxed, and the maid continued with her report. “Miss said she didna wish to be disturbed but that she’d be along.”
Tavish cocked an eyebrow. “Did she, now?”
“Aye, laird.”
“Very well.” Tavish turned from the timid woman even as she was curtseying and felt his ears heat a bit. Whatever tingle of concern for Glenna Douglas’s welfare had seized him dissipated behind a shimmer of stinging pride.
The princess didn’t wish to be disturbed, did she? Very well. She could sit in the chamber and wait for him. And Tavish would not give her another thought.
Although he had planned on cutting his evening with the boring barons short so that he could watch the woman open the trunk Muir had brought from Edinburgh, now he thought he’d stay on a bit. Get to know his neighbors, dismal as they were, and perhaps continue the conversation about the Tower’s supposedly substantial fees.
“I beg your pardon,” he said to the two frowning gentlemen, obviously put out with Tavish’s earlier dismissal. He exchanged his empty chalice for a full one from a servant’s tray. “Roscraig is experiencing a bit of an adjustment with the staff.”
The baron with the hairy ears harrumphed and met Tavish’s gaze squarely. “You’d be wise to correct with an iron fist at the verra start, Cameron. Left unchecked, those devil’s maids will believe ’tis they who rule the hold rather than you.”
Tavish saluted the man with a dark chuckle and then drained his cup.
* * * *
Glenna would have perhaps been furious to have returned to her chamber at being summoned by Tavish Cameron only to find him absent, if not for the fact that she couldn’t get the damned leather pouch out of her grasp quickly enough. She shoved it between the wall and the back of the wardrobe as deeply as her fingers could wedge it, then dashed to the bowl and washed her hands with the strong soap while her heart pounded, her legs trembled.
She paced the chamber in a wide arc from wall to hearth, letting the enormous leather trunk that was now in the middle of her floor squash the ludicrous idea that she anticipated Tavish Cameron’s return. Why must Miss Keane’s wedding costume be stored in her own chamber? Was it so that Glenna might look inside curiously and be beset with a case of outrageous envy? Glenna would not satisfy such delighted imaginings by opening the trunk.
After all, unbeknownst to Audrey Keane, Glenna had already seen more of the gown than she wished, and was sufficiently bitter.
No, now the larger source of Glenna’s torment lay in the dilemma presented to her by Frang Roy’s words. She must find a way to examine the portrait hanging over the hearth. If the painting showed the unique barred brooch…
She heard the scrape of the door and turned quickly to face the man as he entered. Tavish Cameron stood in the doorway for a moment, his gaze finding her immediately. Glenna stared back, a traitorous relief in her heart; almost a sigh of her beleaguered emotions that he was here at last.
The spell was broken as Tavish Cameron stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. “Did you open it?” he asked as he slid the bolt closed.
Glenna frowned and glanced at the large object sitting conspicuously in the floor. “The trunk? Nay. It doesn’t belong to me.”
When he turned, his handsome mouth was curved in a knowing smirk, but he said no more about the trunk. “How is your father tonight?”
Glenna swallowed. Iain Douglas had slept through her encounter with Frang Roy. “He seemed very tired.”
“Is he waking more?”
“He has been.” Glenna’s frown increased. Tavish Cameron had never seemed so interested in her father before. “Why do you ask? Hoping that he died and no one wished to disturb you from your elegant feast?”
“Do you truly think me such a villain to bar you from attending when you had nothing appropriate to wear? If anything, you should thank me.”
“Aye, I’m so grateful for your disdain. Perhaps with all the visitors to Roscraig, you might inquire as to whether there is one willing to take the burden of an unwanted lady from you. No one notices my absence, any matter; your servants, your rich guests, my own father—certainly not you.”
He sighed, his hands on his hips. “You’re being childish. I’m sure I would notice your absence—the silence alone would be deafening.”
They stared at each other again, and Glenna felt a sudden, odd swelling of painful tears behind her eyes. She was a fool for ever trusting him. He couldn’t care less what happened to her. She was nothing more than a temporary amusement.
His smirk fell from his face when she didn’t rise to his hurtful bait, and his expression became enigmatic. “It actually does belong to you.”
Glenna blinked, and her eyes ached at the motion. She turned to follow him with her gaze as he passed her. “What?”
“The trunk.” He poured a chalice of wine from the decanter and replaced the stopper with a scrape of rough glass.
Glenna’s mind instantly went to the leather pouch hidden behind the wardrobe, filled with an unknown poison. Steep half o’ this in a drink and give it to him…
Then Tavish faced her, his cup in hand. His eyes flicked to the large case. “It’s yours.”
“Nay, it’s not,” she said, wondering what game he was playing now. Why would he be so intentionally cruel? “I’ve not seen it before tonight.”
Tavish shrugged. “It’s yours all the same. Open it.”
She shook her head. “Nay.”
“Why?” he said with a bemused smile.
Because I know what’s inside; I know it’s the wedding gown you had made for Audrey Keane. I know it is just the beginning thread to the end of my time here at Roscraig; perhaps the end of everything I’ve ever thought I was. And I do not want to see.
But outwardly she only continued to stare at him.
Tavish Cameron took a long drink and then set his cup down on the table before crossing the floor once more. This time he stopped before Glenna so that her straightforward gaze was on the hollow of his collarbone, visible through the V-notch in his high tunic. The smell of him was warm and tangy and made Glenna’s jaw prickle, causing her to swallow.
“You are still angry with me, aren’t you?”
Glenna shook her head. She didn’t know what she was with him any longer, but angry wasn’t an accurate description of her feelings.
His hand came under her chin and tilted her face up so that she was made to look into his eyes. “I want you to open the trunk,” he said. “Obey me, princess.”
She pulled her face from his touch, wounded that he had revealed himself to be as cruel as she originally thought. It should have eased the troubled knowledge of Frang Roy’s intentions for him, but it did not. She turned to the trunk without a word and sank to her knees before it, steeling herself to show no reaction whatever to the sight she knew would be revealed. She would not give him the satisfaction of feigned surprise, nor would she humiliate herself by confessing how she already knew what the trunk contained.
Glenna turned the two thumb latches and then lifted the hasps. She drew a deep, bracing breath and raised the lid.
There was indeed a folded width of shimmering cloth inside, and yet it was a deep violet hue rather than the light-colored gown that Audrey Keane had held in the torchlight of the corridor. Glenn turned her head to find Tavish sitting on the edge of the bed, watching her.
“What is it?” she asked.
A faint smile played at his mouth again. “I don’t know. Take it out.”
Glenna turned back and hesitantly took hold of the topmost corners of the fabric, raising it from its resting place. It was in fact a gown, the color of the dark violets on the forest floor, the skirt—most of its length still folding in on itself in the trunk—covered with tiny embroidered green vines climbing the peaks and valleys of lavish fabric. It was heavy and luxurious and felt like a physical manifestation of royalty in her hands.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
“It’s yours,” Tavish said from behind her.
Glenna stood slowly, drawing the gown up out of the trunk and then stepping backward to pull it free. She held it against her chest and turned to face him.
“The color suits you,” he said with a smile, his eyes traveling the length of her body. “Fortunate that the young lady whose trousseau this was to be was of similar size. I could only guess.”
“I don’t understand,” Glenna whispered.
“I sent Muir around to a tailor I knew on Market Street to see what could be done about your lack of wardrobe. Luckily enough, he didn’t just have one or two gowns nearly finished for another patron, but was ahead of schedule on an entire trousseau for a wealthy young lady. I paid him double what he was owed for it, and now,”—his lips quirked again—“the princess shall be obligated once more to fulfill her royal duty to me and to Roscraig.”
“There’s more?” Glenna said even as she turned back to the trunk. She sank to her knees again and laid the heavy gown across the crook of her arm while she hesitantly peeked inside, using her thumb and forefinger to gingerly explore the puddles and tunnels of cloth—silks and linens; corded beltings; gossamer pieces so fine and delicate that Glenna dared not slide them free.
This was not the same trunk Captain Muir had given to Audrey Keane—it was filled with an entire wardrobe of wildly expensive items, all purchased for Glenna by Tavish Cameron. He’d clearly spent a small fortune on her. But why?
Before she could begin to puzzle what the clothing meant, Tavish Cameron was pulling her to her feet.
“You can’t look at everything properly while it’s in the trunk,” he chastised.
“I’m afraid I’ll tear them,” she said lamely, and her heart began to pound. “Tread on them or…ruin them somehow.”
But he was already reaching into the container, pulling out rivers of rose, snowy white, indigo, saffron, crimson, and tossing them into Glenna’s arms until she staggered and laughed despite herself.
Tavish Cameron laughed too as he stepped to her side and steadied her with his hands on her waist. Glenna smiled up into his face, and although she felt the merriment leaving her expression, she let the bemused curve of her lips stay.
“Why?” she asked quietly.
Tavish Cameron’s eyes sparkled. “Because you’re beautiful. I like beautiful things. And I want to see you in my hall, in beautiful clothing. I want others to see you.”
“Am I no more than a thing to you, then?” she asked, waiting for that spark of fury to ignite the blazing hatred she felt for him. But the warmth spreading through her body was not hateful, and she leaned into him, grateful for his strength. “Something to be purchased? Or strategically moved aside in order for you to get what you want?”
“I couldn’t find you earlier,” he said, his face drawing closer to hers, but it was no answer to her question. “I did notice your absence. And I didn’t like it.”
“You don’t own me, Tavish Cameron,” she whispered against his mouth, but she felt the tension drain from her then; he had come for her. He had thought of her. Perhaps…
“And yet you belong to me,” he replied and the vibration of the words and their meaning traveled from Glenna’s lips to the soles of her cold feet. “My own princess. Do not vex me so by hiding yourself away from me again when I am in want of you. I canna conduct my business, I canna think; I—”
It was she who rose up on her toes to fit her mouth to his. Her arms went around his neck, the fine, expensive gowns sliding to the floor, and his hands found her waist through the thin, gray wool. She felt his fingers rove up her back to the bare skin at her nape, then slide into her hair, pulling it free of its simple twist. Her curls fell around her shoulders as Tavish pulled her closer, deepening their kiss.
It was madness, the way she responded to him, the way she let herself go in his arms; as if Tavish Cameron wasn’t the reason her life was falling apart, would be the man who wanted to see her ruined, wanted to ruin her. And yet she clung to him as if he was the mast on the ice-slicked deck of a ship at sea. Her only hope of survival, and still the thing that could send her down to the very depths. She hated him, was terrified of him, but she could not tear herself away.
And she would not step aside and leave him vulnerable to Frang Roy’s fatal plan.
It was Tavish who pulled his mouth from hers then, his warm breath smelling of spirits fanning her cheek. “Take off that rag you wear,” he whispered. “I don’t want to see you in it again.”
Glenna stilled in his arms. It was to be tonight then—the night he collected the spoils from their agreement. Glenna thought of the ocean of expensive clothing around them, and realized that—like the time she was borrowing at Roscraig—the gowns were simply another form of payment. Payment for a whore. And Tavish Cameron wanted what he had paid for.
Glenna dropped her eyes as her trembling fingers went to the time-suppled leather laces at her bodice, holding the thin wool closed over her old underdress. She told herself that her hands shook with fear and humiliation; hatred for the man still standing with his hands at her waist. But her heart pounded, pounded in her chest in that now-familiar way when he was near.
“I like it when you are obedient, princess,” he said, and the smile in his words stirred something of her pride.
She slapped him without thinking, and Tavish caught her wrist and swatted her other arm away before she could make a second attempt. In the blink of an eye he seized both sides of the laces and ripped the gray wool kirtle down its front. Glenna staggered backward out of his reach, the coolness of the chamber causing her skin to prickle beneath the dingy underdress.
“Take it off,” he repeated, a devilish sparkle in his eyes that had deepened to indigo in the shadows.
Glenna didn’t know why she suddenly wished to provoke his anger when only a moment ago she had been willing to meekly do as he commanded, but she now she only lifted her chin.
He took a measured step toward her. “Is it your wish that I do it for you?” he asked, the smile back in his voice again and even lifting one side of his mouth.
Her stomach clenched, and she shrugged out of the ruined kirtle, dropping it to the floor. His blue eyes held her captive, acknowledging her game.
“Give it to me,” he said, and then pulled it from her hand when she offered it. He strode to the hearth, balling the old cloth between his fists. In a moment, it blazed against the stones.
Tavish turned and strode back toward her, glancing pointedly at her old underdress. “That, as well.”
Glenna shook her head. “I needn’t remove it for you to have me.”
“True,” he conceded, stepping even closer. “But what I want right now is to see your naked body. So…” He stopped. “Take it off.”
Glenna’s knees felt watery, her breaths came like ragged bellows. Tavish Cameron’s blue eyes held her just as surely as his strong hands had a moment ago, and she felt powerless against the sorcery of his words.
“Does it make you feel more of a laird to wield yo
ur power over me?” she asked in a breathy taunt.
To her dread and her delight, he began stepping toward her once more, and this time he did not pause. “I am laird here. And what I demand is only what you freely promised me.” He reached out and slid a warm, callused palm along her jawline, into her hair once more, and it took all of Glenna’s strength of will not to turn her face into that palm, press her lips to his skin. But she could not stifle her jagged inhalation.
Tavish pulled her gently but steadily toward him, and as she came up against his chest, his left hand slid over her breast through the thin underdress, cupping it, molding its roundness with his fingers. He leaned his head down but rather than kiss her again, his mouth went to her collarbone, and Glenna closed her eyes as the warm scent of his hair filled her nose and the hot, wet sensation of his tongue traced a fiery trail to the center of her chest.
Both Tavish’s hands went to her rib cage now, pressing in and up, causing her décolletage to swell above the thin linen. He caught the frayed edge of underdress puckered between her breasts in his teeth and then smoothed both palms forward to press her hardened nipples into her flesh before raking his fingertips together in a plucking motion, taking great fistfuls of the material.
He rent it with his teeth, pulling it apart with his hands as he sank lower, between her breasts, over her abdomen, the ripping linen preceding his hot breath. He dropped to his knees and licked the skin around her navel in a quick circuit while his hands finished ruining the underdress and then jerked it downward from her shoulders.
Glenna heard the startled gasp coming from her as if from another person. She swayed on her feet as Tavish Cameron’s hands slid up the backs of her calves, then her thighs, then gripped her bare cheeks. He looked up at her then, his eyes ablaze in the shadows set dancing by the fire and without breaking gaze with her he nuzzled his mouth into her most sensitive flesh.
The Laird's Vow Page 16